


Champ

by titC



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: De-Aged, Detective Mahoney is D O N E, Frank's dog - Freeform, Gen, also murder mode Frank, dad mode Frank, have some feels, kid Matt, other cameos from regulars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 18:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/titC/pseuds/titC
Summary: Detective Mahoney investigates an empty gym because his Ma told him to. He doesn't find what he's expecting.





	Champ

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Beguile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile) for betaing!  
> For my DaredevilBingo prompt _Like a champ_.  
> 

Detective Brett Mahoney tried to be a good cop _and_ a good son, but damn if the second part wasn’t the hardest. His Ma had Opinions, she Heard Things, and she was the neighborhood Gossip Central. She was also, to Brett’s horror, a bit of a vigilante fan.

“That Jessica Jones,” she’d asked once, “do you know her?” Brett had grumbled a, “Well who doesn’t,” and Ma had taken it as encouragement to go on. “ _You_ can’t catch them all, can you? All the bad people. And some of them are too dangerous, I don’t want you around them.”

“But Ma,” he’d said. “It’s my job!”

And yet, however much he tried to protest, she ignored him. She worried about her son, and she cheered vigilantes on for protecting the good people of New York and especially her son. No explanations about how he didn’t need protecting, how he was trained and armed, or how _he_ acted within the law for the good of all could appease her; no, nothing worked.

Still, he knew to listen to her, too. Somehow, she knew things. Who was operating where, who seemed to be on a break, that sort of thing. Well, she was friends with Ma Nelson too, and what with those idiot lawyers having taken residence in her shop’s storeroom for a couple months… These damn dumbasses had taken a shine to some of said vigilantes. Defending Castle? Working with Daredevil? Nelson had worked for Luke Cage, too. And there had been that whole Midland Circle fiasco, where Murdock had been sorta voluntarily kidnapped by Cage, Jones and the Rand guy before disappearing for a while. And Karen Page? _She_ had a soft spot for Castle. Maybe she was into mass murderers, who knew? Brett sure didn’t.

But anyway, when Ma said there had been something strange going on at the old gym that had recently closed, he thought he could swing by it after his shift. It wasn’t far, and abandoned and empty places were prime spots for illegal activities. Not that he expected any; Ma had only mentioned noises and shadows inside but nothing suggesting he should bring backup. And he didn’t want to tell his superior he wanted a team to go in because his old Ma’s friends thought they’d seen something. Probably just some hobo looking for a dry place for the night. Brett was only doing his job, right?

That was how he found himself at gunpoint in a dark, dingy gym that smelled like old sweat and older leather on a cold November evening.

His flashlight had fallen but it was still on, and it was enough to see who was holding that gun.

“Castle,” he said.

“Mahoney.” Castle lowered the gun. “You here for me?”

“Not especially, but I can change my mind.”

Castle shrugged. “You’re on your own. Good luck.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Looking for someone.” He wasn’t wearing his usual murder-vest, so maybe he wasn’t out to kill at the moment.

“So there _is_ someone here?”

“Don’t know. That’s what I’m here to find out.”

Brett crouched to pick his light up. He should have gotten his gun out too, not trusted the cool darkness that it was quiet and safe enough. “Who are you looking for?”

Castle considered him for a moment. “The idiot in red.”

“Uh?” Who was that? Another vigilante? Someone he should know? “Tony Stark?”

“Don’t be dense. Your local devil.”

“Daredevil? You’re looking for Daredevil?”

“Yeah.”

“He hasn’t been wearing red in months.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m looking for him.”

“Why, want to kill him?” Daredevil had helped arrest him that first time, after all. Maybe Castle wanted revenge, even if it was delayed. Who could tell, with these people?

“No. Karen said he’s been…” Castle’s pause to look for the right words, the right lie, certainly wasn’t suspicious at all. Brett frowned. These people would give him wrinkles earlier than his time. “She said he’s been AWOL for a while. Said maybe I could corner him somewhere.”

“Weird? Weirder than usual, you mean.”

“She said, uh. She said he’s not answering messages, that maybe he’s – she asked me to find him. Make sure he’s okay.”

“Damn, does she have a direct line with all you people?” Brett sucked in a breath. He could question her. But he wouldn’t, if only because Castle would murder anyone touching a single hair on her head and taking her in for questioning would definitely make him go berserk. “Anyway, is this one of his places?”

“She and Nelson, they met here with him when they got Fisk.”

“And Murdock?”

“Yeah. And Murdock.”

“I guess you can’t really keep them all apart for long. Nelson and Murdock, I mean. His father trained here, you know.”

“Murdock’s?”

“Yes. He was a boxer. Famous in the neighborhood, too.” It was too dark in here to see if there were old posters left and the power must have been cut months ago, so Brett pointed his flashlight at the walls. “Hm, no, no… ah. Here.” He found a fight advertised on an old-timey poster with Battlin’ Jack’s name, and a picture next to it. “That’s him.”

“Huh.” Castle didn’t look too closely at it. Right - that wasn’t why he was here. “If you’re not going to try and cuff me…” He gestured vaguely around and got his own light out. “Why are _you_ here?”

“People heard things. Thought I’d check it out. Got you instead.” Brett didn’t think it was Castle who’d taken residence here. The place hadn’t been set up like he imagined Punisher-appropriate HQ would be. “At least you’re not gunning down mobsters tonight.”

“Someone’s got to.”

“No. Someone’s got to arrest them, and get them to a trial, and then serve time as a court of law will dictate.”

“And then they’ll get out and start all over again. Shit, you sound just like him.” Castle had wandered off further into the gym, shining his light in every little corner.

Brett took the other side of the main room, and started looking around too. “Who?”

“Red. Your devil.”

True, Daredevil didn’t kill. He did leave seriously broken bodies behind him, though; and some never entirely recovered. Brett knew first hand how hard he hit, too – and back then, he’d probably pulled his punch. “Not mine.”

“Whatever. He goes out and hogties them for you people, and it’s not _efficient_.”

“And you’re all about efficiency, eh?”

“I finish my fights. He’d rather let them break all his bones than kill them.”

Brett sighed. He’d planned on a quick check and then heading back home, order in something nice, open a beer, relax on his couch. Instead, he’d ended up face-to-face with a deranged ex-Marine waging a one-man war on those he’d decided deserved a bullet to the head, judge, jury and executioner style. And yet Brett wasn’t arresting him. Damn mass murderer had saved his life, after all. And he was being almost decent, at the moment.

“Castle,” he said.

“What.”

“Is he your _friend_? Daredevil.”

“I don’t have friends.”

Yeah, sure. Big, bad Punisher was worried about his roof-jumping fellow vigilante, all right. Karen Page had sent her pet guard dog to look for the family fox terrier. It was almost cute.

Brett swept his light left and right, right and left, but there was nothing too strange so far. Until he walked around the ring. “Castle.” The tone of his voice must have been different, because Castle joined him right away. And kept quiet.

They’d just found a messy little pile of clothes. Kid’s clothes.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Castle picked a pair of jeans and looked at it, then at the label on a shirt that had a big Superman logo on the front. “Bout ten.”

“What?”

“The size. Kid’s about ten.” Oh. Yeah.

“Think they’re here?”

“Maybe. It’s a good hiding place.” Castle stood back up and narrowed his eyes. He ran his light along the room, walked around the ring, then made for a door to the side.

Brett followed and found himself in a smaller carpeted room, with racks of dumbbells and weights along the sides. Castle looked around, then his light hit a pile of mats. They were leaning against the wall and a wooden bench, and forming a – shit. “It’s a house, right? A kid’s house.”

“Yeah.”

“Yo, kid? You in there?” Brett said loudly as he got nearer, but Castle pulled him back.

“Let me,” he said. “If there’s a kid hiding in there, you’re scaring them.”

Brett frowned. He wasn’t scary, his neighbors’ girl always giggled when she saw him. But then he remembered Castle had been a father, a lifetime ago. He stayed behind.

Brett watched him walk slowly, then kneel and set his flashlight on the floor, pointing away from the makeshift house. Castle settled himself against the wall next to the light, 6 or 7 feet away, and managed to look as unthreatening as he could be terrifying, at other times.

“Hey,” he said. He lifted a knee and rested his arm on it. “I think you’re in there, and I’d like to talk, but I’m not going to drag you out, alright? I’m not going to go into your place. You found it, it’s yours.” There was only silence. “Okay. You hungry?” Castle stuck a hand in a pocket and got some sort of protein bar out of his thick jacket. He put it on the floor and slid it to the entrance. “Taste’s not great, but it hits the spot, you know?”

Still no sound from under the mats, and Brett was growing impatient. Was there even someone there? He opened his mouth, then closed it. Castle probably knew what he was doing, and if there _was_ a kid there he wasn’t going to leave them alone with the Punisher. Brett sighed and sat on the floor, near the door. They were going to be here for a long time, he could just feel it.

“Name’s Frank,” Castle went on. His voice was pitched low, but he wasn’t whispering either. _Just having a quiet one-sided conversation, as one does_. “His name’s Brett. He’s not going to hurt you either. I promise.”

“Hi,” Brett said dutifully.

The only sounds were the occasional car driving past, a siren in the distance. Still nothing from under the mats.

“You know, kid. It’s pretty smart, staying here. It’s empty, it’s dry. You even got showers, if they still work. That’s nice.” Castle leaned his head back on the wall. “But I think you’re hurt, kid. There was a little blood on the shirt you left on the floor.”

Brett had missed that. How could he have missed it? Well, he hadn’t looked very closely and it was dark, but… shit. Not only was there a kid, but it was an injured one.

“You need something? Band-aids, Neosporin?” The silence now felt more ominous. How severely was the kid hurt? “Look, I’m not going to leave until I know you’re okay. But it’s cool, I got time.”

Brett wanted to call for help, stat. Child protection services, an ambulance? What was the most urgent? But Castle didn’t seem too worried, just sitting there patiently like he had nowhere else to be. Like – well, like a sniper. And that was not a thought Brett wanted to have.

But his sniper skills were paying off, because after long minutes, there was the tiniest noise coming from under the mats. A little shuffling, a little sniffle. Then, in what little light there was, Brett saw a small hand dart out and grab the protein bar before disappearing back inside. Then plastic crinkled and a soft “Ew” made Brett smile. Castle had done it.

“Yeah, kid, I know; but it’s all I have.”

Another sniffle. “I’m not eating that.” The bar shot out from the mat cave and hit Castle on the head.

“Good shot, kid.”

“…I’m sorry?”

“You’re not sorry,” Castle said with a little laugh.

“No.”

“Hey, kid. You got a name? So I know who tried to knock me out with a snack.”

There was no answer straight away, but then after a while Brett saw it. Two eyes, a pointy nose, a little face. The kid was right at the entrance, looking at Castle. “No,” the kid said.

“Don’t want to tell me?”

“Maybe I don’t have a name?” Brett felt his eyes widen. He _hoped_ it was a lie. “I don’t remember it, I think.” Was it worse, or better?

But Castle looked unfazed. “Alright.”

“You’re still here,” the kid said.

“Yeah.”

Two arms wrapped around denim-covered knees. The kid was almost outside, now – almost, but not quite. “You said you’d go.”

“I did?”

“I’m okay. I don’t need help. You said you’d go.”

“I said I wasn’t leaving until I knew you were okay.”

“I am. I’m not bleeding anymore.”

“You don’t know your name, kid. That’s not great.”

Brett saw the kid’s head move a little, as if looking around. “Mike?” he said.

“That your name?”

Kid shrugged. “Why not?”

“Alright, Mike it is.”

“Can you leave, now?”

“I’m good.” Castle turned his head in the kid’s direction. “Will you let me look at your wound?”

“You said you’d leave. You lied.”

“I’m still not sure you’re okay.”

“Why do you care, anyway?”

Castle didn’t answer for a while. “Your shirt,” he finally said. “My son had the same one. Reminded me of him. He liked Batman, too.”

“Batman’s smart,” the kid said. Brett frowned. The shirt was a Superman shirt, right?

“Yeah.” Frank waited.

After maybe a minute, the kid unfolded himself and came a little closer, kneeling halfway between his shelter and Castle. He was a skinny little thing lost in a shirt too big for him, pale with dark hair from what Brett could see. “What’s his name?”

“My boy? Frank, Jr.”

“You called him like you? It’s stupid.”

Castle laughed. “My wife’s idea.”

“Oh.” Mike, for want of a better name, inched a little closer again. “I hurt my head,” he said. “Fell down. But it’s not bleeding anymore.”

“All right. Can I look?”

The kid seemed to brace himself but didn’t move when Castle ran his fingers through his hair, as gently as he must have with his own children. After a moment he picked up the flashlight and shone the beam right into the kid’s eyes, but Mike didn’t flinch at all. Brett’s heart jumped in his throat. Kid was fucking blind. Castle didn’t show any sign he suspected anything, but the kid’s head jerked in Brett’s direction, probably because Castle was prodding at his wound. “Found it. I know it hurts when you hit your head but you’re a champ, kid. Head wounds bleed a lot, but you shouldn’t need stitches.”

“I know.”

“You know?” Mike shrugged. Okay, the blind kid hiding in a derelict gym knew whether he needed stitches, like it was no big deal. Sure. Why not. There was also a guy flying around with a magic hammer around these parts, so eh. Whatever. “Okay, you know. But you should still wash it and keep it clean,” Frank said.

“I’ll take a shower.”

“Bet they’re cold, right?”

“It’s fine.”

“Cold showers suck.” Castle looked at the kid’s bare arms, his hands. “Your palms are all scraped, too.”

“I fell.”

“Yeah, I got that part.”

“I washed them.”

“That’s good. That’s a good start, yeah.”

Brett desperately wanted to ask where his parents were, what he was doing here, how long he’d been here, but Castle was pointedly avoiding these questions and he probably had his reasons. Reasons Brett didn’t want to think about too hard. “So, uh.” Castle looked at him. “It’s late. Anyone hungry?”

Mike’s stomach growled, and he crossed his arms over his belly with a look of panic.

“Hey, me too, champ.” Castle moved to kneel next to the kid. “If we’re leaving, are you coming with us? We can get some food, all right?”

The boy backed into the mats. “You tricked me!”

“You can stay, if you’d like. Or you can come get food with us, and then come back here.”

“You’re not lying,” Mike whispered. Brett hoped he _was_ lying. A kid shouldn't be left on his own, especially a blind one, right? His Ma would never forgive him.

“I’m not lying. But I’m worried, Mike. You look smart, but this is a tough life.” The kid looked more mulish every second. “What about food? What about when we’re in the middle of winter, and it’s real cold? There’s no heating here. What about school?”

“I can get more clothes.”

“Where do you get them?”

“Clotheslines.” Mike jerked his head upwards. “People put their clothes out to dry on the roofs sometimes.”

“That’s stealing,” Brett said.

“Kid’s gotta do what he’s gotta do, man,” Frank said. Mike got a little closer to Castle and incidentally further away from Brett. “Don’t mind him, kid. He got a stick up his ass. Can’t help himself.” Mike snickered.

“Hey,” Brett said mildly. He, at least, wasn’t using swear words around children.

“That’s how I got hurt,” the kid said. “I tripped on a… pipe.”

“A pipe?” Frank asked. Mike nodded warily. “You didn’t see it?”

And here was the best _Oh, shit_ face Brett had seen in a good long while. “It was dark?” Mike tried. Yeah, Brett would bet it was.

“It happens, kid. You didn't get hurt too bad.”

Mike’s hand made an aborted gesture in Castle's direction. “Do you get hurt, too?”

“Sometimes.”

“Frank,” the kid said.

“Yeah.”

“I’m hungry?”

“All right. Let’s go get food, then.”

Castle knocked the back of his hand in the kid’s arm and Mike reflexively took it. _Well shit,_ Brett thought. _That’s smooth._ The Punisher got them dad skills all right.

 

Mike didn’t seem to have any particular preference, so Brett suggested they go to a little diner where they knew him and where he, hopefully, wouldn't get too much of a side-eye for bringing a kid in at past 10 in the evening on a Thursday, _and_ with another guy. He’d flash his badge or something, hint it was police business.

Mike was impressive, for a blind kid – not that Brett knew that many blind folks. He’d never seen Murdock without his cane, but Mike seemed to do just fine without. You wouldn't think he was blind, just to see him move around. When they got to the diner Castle told him to pick his booth and the kid just walked forward on his own, letting his fingers brush against the seats rather discreetly until he got to the last one, in the corner. The one without a window. He scrambled on the worn bench and stretched his legs over it, as if to forbid any of them to sit there and box him in, so Brett sat facing him, on the same bench as Frank.

A tired-looking waitress came with laminated menus and raised her eyebrows at the kid but didn’t say anything. Brett couldn’t remember her name, but he was pretty sure he’d seen her before.

“What do you want?” Brett asked.

Mike ran his fingers over the plastic, then let it fall on the table. It had been upside down in his hand. “I can’t, uh. I can’t read,” he said.

“Want me to read it out for you?” The kid shook his head. “Anything you don't like?” A shrug.

Castle flicked a finger on his own menu. “I’m having the cheeseburger and double French fries.” It did look like a good choice.

“Me too,” Mike said.

“Attaboy. But I’m also having a beer, champ.”

“That's okay. I can drink beer too.” There was a little grin on Mike’s face.

“Yeah, no. Milkshake?”

“Okay.”

Brett waved at the waitress to give their order before turning back to Mike. “You ever actually tried beer?”

“Um.” He made a scrunched up face. “My father gave me some scotch once?”

“Your – okay, how old are you?” Shit, wrong question; he hadn’t seem sure about his name so he probably wouldn't know his age, right? Brett tried very hard not to ask about where his dad was now. “Ten, something like that? Bit young for alcohol, I think.”

“I don’t think I liked it much.”

“Well, good. Kids shouldn't like alcohol.”

“Do you like it?”

“I’m not a kid.”

“But you were once, right?” Damn was he argumentative, but Brett was saved from more questioning with the arrival of their beers and milkshake.

Mike sent a blinding smile and a very polite “Thank you, Ma’am,” her way and she cooed at him.

“What a nice, well brought-up boy you are! You’ll be a lady killer, mark my words,” she said with a wink before leaving their table.

Castle seemed to be having trouble stifling his laughter, and Brett frowned. “What? She’s nice. And she’s right, Mike here is very polite.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Castle took a long pull of his beer. “A real charmer.”

Brett decided to ignore that for now. His Ma had brought him up right too and no one had ever said _he_ was a charmer. He wasn’t jealous at all, but thinking of his Ma reminded him of other things she’d drilled into his head. “Hey, Mike. I’m going to wash my hands. Maybe you should too?”

“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” the kid said.

What? “What?”

“That’s what the Sisters say.”

“Sisters? You got sisters? Where are – you got sisters?”

“Um.” Mike looked a little lost again. “Not really,” he said. Ah, damn. They either had a blind, confused kid on their hands, or one that was lying _a lot_. Either way… “We should all wash our hands before eating,” Mike finally decided, and he slid out of the booth.

“Hey,” Brett said.

“He’s just going to the restrooms,” Castle said. “I’ll go with him, all right? Don’t drink my beer.” He steered the kid with a couple light pokes in the shoulder, and Brett was reminded that however hard he pretended otherwise the kid couldn't know, and couldn't see, where the restrooms were.

Once they’d all gotten a step closer to godliness and their burgers had arrived, they didn't talk much. The kid joined hands and closed his eyes for a quick blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment, and Castle did his broody silence thing while drinking beer, then coffee. Mike ate like he hadn’t had a proper meal in ages – which was probably accurate – and Brett, well. Brett wondered what he’d done in a previous life to deserve this.

The kid finished his burger before either Castle or Brett did theirs, but he didn’t try to steal any of their fries. He was looking like he was finding it harder and harder to stay awake and alert, until finally he crossed his arms on the table and lost the fight against sleep. In the harsh diner light, he was still as pale as he’d seemed in the gym, but his hair was actually a really dark red. They had to decide what to do with him.

“St Agnes,” Castle said. “We can take him to St Agnes. They can take care of him, there. The nuns.”

“You want to put him in an orphanage?”

“They got what kids need. Do you?”

Brett sighed. Well, no, he didn’t. “It’s late, Castle. No one will answer.”

“Worth a try.”

“Fine.”

Brett paid and Castle coaxed Mike out of the booth. The kid was all uncoordinated and it was clear he was blind, now. He kept trying to grab things – the table, Castle’s shoulder, his probably stolen little jacket – and missing.

“I can carry you, kid.” Mike made a very pathetic attempt at pushing Castle away, and Brett dis his best not to laugh out loud. “We’re taking you to a place where they take care of kids like you, all right?”

“No,” Mike whined. “No, you promised.”

“I did. But it would be a warm bed for tonight.”

“No.”

The waitress started to come closer, but Brett shook his head and let his coat hang open just enough to let her see his gun and badge. Look, trustworthy cop here, totally not kidnapping a little boy.

“It’s not a prison, kid,” Frank said.

“But you promised,” and it was almost a sob.

“You want to go back to the gym?”

“No,” and oh shit, _now_ he was crying.

“What do you want then?”

Mike latched onto Castle then, threw his arms around him and hung on for dear life. It would have been cute as hell if Mike hadn’t been sniffling in Castle’s heavy bomber jacket and if the Punisher himself hadn’t looked suspiciously bright-eyed. Shit, his own boy had been around that age when he’d been killed, right? _Shit._

“Okay, champ,” and Brett had never heard him speak so softly. “Okay, we’ll go to that place but I’ll stay with you tonight, alright? That okay?” Castle stood up and hefted the kid over his hip in an obviously practiced move. Maybe it was like riding a bike, Brett thought. Maybe it was one of those things you could never forget.

The tiniest “Kay,” came from Castle's shoulder, and they left the diner under the watchful and somewhat misty eye of their waitress. She’d taken a shine to the kid, Brett could tell. Already a lady killer, then.

Brett knocked on the orphanage door, but of course no one answered. It was all dark inside, and Brett was loathe to ring the bell non-stop until someone came. That would wake the entire building up, and his Ma would not approve of that.

“Now what?”

Castle looked at the church right next to St Agnes. “Let’s try there.”

Mike hadn’t made a single noise since they’d left the diner, and Castle’s arms didn’t seem to tire. Well, he probably wouldn't want to show it if they did, Brett thought. Maybe the rhythm of his steps were rocking the kid to sleep? That was what people did with babies, right? Well, at least Mike wasn’t trying to run away, which Brett had been expecting.

They got through the church doors and looked around. It was empty, but as they went further in their steps must have echoed loud enough to be heard. They were halfway down the aisle when a nun came in from a side door that Brett hadn’t spotted. Her hair wasn’t covered; she hadn’t been expecting to see anyone, but she was still wearing the rest of her habit. She looked vaguely familiar, but then again, Brett had been in that church before, during the Fisk/FBI fiasco. That was where the priest had been killed by the fake Daredevil.

“Hello, Sister,” Castle said. He was towering over her.

“Gentlemen.” Her eyes went straight to Mike. “Not the usual hour for CPS to come with a new ward.”

Brett showed up his badge. “We’re not CPS.”

“Yes, I think I remember you.”

Mike started fussing in Castle’s arms, as if their voices were waking him up.

“He was on his own when we found him, and we thought, maybe…”

“Of course. Follow me,” she said, and she led them out of the nave and down a flight of stairs that led them into a basement of some sort. Well, a crypt; it was under the church itself, Brett estimated. “Our other wards are all asleep now and I don’t want to wake them up, but he can stay here tonight.”

She flicked a switch and a yellowish light turned on above their heads. There was a cot near a wall, some thick books on a shelf, a laundry room behind them, a sink with an old-fashioned faucet, and a surprisingly well-stocked first-aid kit on a table near the bed. What was this place? Apart from a storage room, given the neat piles of stackable chairs and tables. And – shit, a few creepy angel statues and a heavy bag hanging from the ceiling. The kind he’d seen just a couple hours earlier in the old gym. Did the nuns practice boxing under the altar? Brett shook his head.

Castle made for the cot and let the kid slide from his arms onto the thin mattress, then moved to the foot of the bed to take Mike’s shoes off while the nun took a folded blanket from a shelf and prepared to tuck him in. She didn’t get that far, though. As soon as she saw the kid’s face, she made a small sound of distress and let the blanket fall to cover her mouth with her hands. Her eyes were wide, and she looked… scared? No, that wasn’t quite right. But she looked _something_ for sure.

“That’s him, yeah? You recognize him,” Castle said. He picked up the blanket and covered Mike himself before sitting on the bed. The nun took a deep, measured breath and nodded.

“We should talk,” she said in a thin voice.

“Yeah.”

The nun seemed to hesitate though, torn between going to Mike (or whatever his name was) and leading them out.

Brett frowned. “So you know him? Both of you?” Why hadn’t Castle said anything?

“Wasn’t sure. Now I am.” Castle’s hand twitched over the kid’s shoulder as if he’d wanted to pat him gently before changing his mind, then he stood up. “Let’s go someplace else.”

“No.” It was the kid. He’d grabbed Castle’s jacket, somehow. “You promised,” he said in a small, sleepy voice.

“I’m not leaving, champ. We’re just going to another room to talk while you sleep.”

“No.”

“I’ll be next door, all right?” Mike’s face crumpled. “Ah, shit.” Castle gently peeled the kid’s fingers off of his jacket and took it off. “Look, I’ll leave this here with you, okay? It’s cold outside. I won’t be leaving without it, yeah? So if it’s here, you know I’m still around.” He draped it over the blanket and the kid seemed to relax, finally.

The nun wiped her face none too discreetly and turned away to the laundry room. “Kitchen’s that way,” she said. “Don’t know about you, but I could do with a hot toddy.”

 _And some answers,_ Brett thought. _Definitely some answers._

The nun – Maggie, she’d said – busied herself at the old-fashioned stove while Brett and Castle waited patiently. She seemed to need some time to compose herself, and Brett was happy to let her have it. She poured a generous dose of rum in the mugs and finally settled at the worn table with them.

“Where did you find him?” Maggie asked.

“In the old gym, the one that closed a few months ago. He’d been hiding there for a while, looked like.” Brett felt his eyebrows creep up as he watched Maggie top up her drink with more alcohol.

“Fogwell’s,” she said.

“Yes.”

“You said you recognized him. He’s one of yours, then?”

“Hah! You could say that, Detective.”

“How long has he gone missing? There must be an Amber alert, we should get it canceled.” Brett got his phone out, but a hand on his arm stopped him.

“There’s no Amber alert,” Castle said.

“What?”

“The boy’s name,” Maggie said, “is Matthew Murdock.”

“Hell no.” Brett wasn’t buying it, Murdock was in his thirties, for a start. “His kid, maybe.”

“His kid wouldn’t be blind, Mahoney.”

“Well it’s still possible. Contrary to, you know. What you’re saying.”

“We probably have pictures of him at that age, here at St Agnes. He came to us when he was ten.”

“People don’t magically become younger. And you,” Brett told Castle. “I wouldn't have pegged you for someone going for that crap.”

“Not necessarily magic.” Castle tried the hot toddy and nodded at Maggie. “Nice, Sister.”

“What else? The will of God? Bullshit, if you ask me. Uh, no offense, Maggie.”

“None taken.”

They all kept quiet for a while, letting the warm alcohol cool their spirits.

“So, uh.” Brett turned the mug in his hands. “You seemed to have a pretty strong reaction, when you recognized him.”

“Yes,” Maggie said. She didn’t volunteer anything else, and Brett saw Castle smirking in his drink.

“You raised him, Sister?” Castle asked.

“Matthew was one of my wards, yes.” There was something else, but they clearly wouldn’t be granted that information.

“You should know,” Brett said. “He’s blind, but he pretends he’s not. We’ve let him think we buy his act for now, but…”

“He’s pretty good at it, though.” Castle sounded impressed, rightfully so. The kid _was_ good.

“Matthew wasn't born blind,” she said. “He knows how sighted people behave.”

“It can’t be Matt.” Brett wasn’t buying it. “He said his name was Mike. Well, he first said he didn’t know if he had a name, then he went for Mike.”

“Interesting, Detective.” She gave him a sly grin.

“Why?”

“Do you know Matthew’s middle name?” Brett shook his head. “Michael.”

Well, damn. Looked like the answers only came with more questions, right?

“Matthew Michael Murdock?” Castle huffed. “Letter M on sale or something?” Man didn’t have a leg to stand on, in Brett’s opinion. He gave his son his own name, after all. _And_ blamed it on his wife.

“We liked both names,” Maggie said. “So we went with the alphabetical order.”

Well, that was as good an explanation as another. Wait. _Wait._

Castle had noticed, too. He sat up. “We,” he said.

She grimaced. It had slipped out, then. “Yes.”

“Does he know?” Brett asked.

“It’s a recent development, but yes.”

Well, that must have gone down well. Still, it wasn’t something that would turn back the clock. Nothing could.

Speaking of clock, Brett checked the hour on his phone and decided it was high time he left. The kid, whoever he was ( _not_ Matt Murdock, seriously), would be taken care of properly now. He stood up and put his mug down in the sink. “It’s late, I should go,” he said.

“Good night, Detective.” Maggie looked at Castle. “And you? Are you staying?”

“I promised.”

“Hope I don’t see you around, Castle,” Brett said.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“If I see Daredevil, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“You do that.”

“And to stay away from you.”

“He’ll do whatever he wants to do. He’s a stubborn piece of work.”

Well, it seemed Castle _did_ know him well enough. “True. Goodnight then, Sister,” Brett told Maggie, and he left them in the downstairs kitchen.

Once outside, he took a deep breath of cool night air and closed his eyes. Ah, reality and normal things – sirens in the distance, neon lights, people laughing and arguing and crying and eating everywhere around him. And, best of all, no vigilantes, mysterious kids, annoying lawyers, or nuns with a checkered past to fuck up his life until tomorrow.

 

Mike had gotten used to a broken sleep, but every time he woke up the weight of Frank’s jacket lulled him back into slumber. He was warm, and he could smell incense and burning candles not far away, and sometimes low voices. He didn’t want to let himself trust them; he’d learned not to trust anyone, but he was just tired. Frank’s jacket was heavy and smelled like him, and he hadn’t left yet. Not yet. So every time he woke up, Mike curled his fingers a little tighter in the leather and told himself, _Just a little longer. Just a little longer._ He’d make a break for it in the morning.

He knew it was too late for that when the jacket was taken away and the sudden lightness jerked him out of sleep. Mike’s heart jumped in his throat but Frank’s heartbeat and smell helped.

“Hey, champ,” Frank said, “I’m going to get fresh bagels for breakfast, want some?”

Mike was still rubbing his face and trying to remember everything that had led him there. “Breakfast?” He didn’t think he’d had breakfast in a while. Dad used to – but then… he remembered he was elsewhere after that, with other kids and noises and Sisters in scratchy clothes.

“Sister Maggie said you didn’t have to join the other children today if you woke up late.”

“It’s late?”

“Bout half eight. Other kids are at school by now.”

Mike wondered why Frank was still there, but he didn’t want to ask too many questions. He nodded, slid out of bed, and listened to Frank leave the basement. The place felt familiar, too; the way it echoed, the smells, even the squeaking of the cot’s springs.

When Frank came back, he told him not to eat the bagels with blue sprinkles because they were his favorites, and Mike froze.

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“Yes, you are. Kids are always hungry.” Frank pulled a kitchen chair out and sat down, and Mike waited. He didn’t know what else to do. “You’re blind, aren’t you? No, hey, no, don’t bolt like that.”

Mike tried to shake Frank’s hand off, but he was holding on tight and he should have been able to break away but he didn’t manage to after all and an old man’s voice in his head kept saying, _You’re weak, Matty; I taught you better than that, Matty._ He didn’t recognize that name. “Let me go,” Mike said. “You’re hurting me.”

“Promise you won’t run away?” Frank took the box with his free hand and shook it lightly in front of Mike. “Come on, take one. You look like you don’t eat enough, kid.”

“But…”

“There aren’t any blue ones.”

So Mike slowly took one, and Frank let him go, and they ate quietly next to each other.

“How did you know?”

“Few things. You’re pretty good, you know? But there are things you can’t see.”

“Like the blue bagels?”

“Yeah. Like the blue bagels.”

Mike, a fresh bagel in his hands, basked a little in Frank’s presence. He felt solid, unmovable, and it reminded him of something, someone. But then there was the strange, metallic smell that came from him; it was vaguely familiar too but made Mike’s throat close up a little. He stopped trying to force the memories back after a few minutes. Whatever had happened before he’d woken up on a strange roof, in a strange world… he wasn’t sure he wanted to remember, really. The occasional flashes that came to him – the burn of alcohol, some flashes of color, the thwack of a cane on his back and the thump of fists on something big and heavy… the smell of leather and sweat, the sounds of cars that were so different from what he could hear now… it was only making him feel even more lost and alone.

He poked Frank’s arm. “You’re not angry?”

Frank took his time before answering. “Why? Because you hid it?”

“Lying’s a sin.”

“Don’t care about that. It was the smart thing to do. You had no reason to trust Mahoney or me.”

Mike finished his bagel before asking, “Should I tell the Sister?”

“Tell me what?”

Mike almost fell from his chair then. He’d been so focused on Frank, trying so hard to avoid some thoughts… _Constant vigilance, Matty! Zanshin! You’re not paying attention. Do you_ want _to be weak, Matty? Do you?_ He put his half-eaten bagel down. Should he tell her? Could he trust anyone? But Frank had noticed. She’d know pretty quickly, too. Unless he made a go for it. He’d slept, he’d eaten; he should leave now. He had no reason to stay. He’d have to find a new hiding place, but he had the entire day to do that.

“Don’t, kid.” Frank’s hand landed, heavy and warm, on his nape. It had calluses, and the fingers were strong. It felt like a fighter’s hand. “Don’t think about it.”

“Think about what?” Mike tried. He wanted to hate that hand, he wanted it to feel like it was keeping him down and restrained, something to escape from. It reminded him of his dad, instead.

“Don’t run away. You’re not a prisoner, all right? We’re not going to tie you down.”

“Oh, we’re not?” Sister Maggie said. “Fine, we’re not. But we’ve got food and warmer clothes than what you’re wearing.”

Mike wanted to stay, and he hated that he wanted to stay. _Weak_ , the voice in his head said. _Weak. Your daddy’s dead, Matty. You’re on your own, Matty. You can’t rely on anyone, Matty._ But she was a nun, right? She had to be good, right? “Can I have the clothes, then leave?”

She sighed. “I’d rather you stayed. But yes, you can have clothes; we’re not going to let you freeze to death in the winter.”

“Why do you want me to stay?”

Frank shook him a little. “Why would the Sister want you to leave?”

It wasn’t an answer, but Mike thought that was the best one he’d get anyway. At least they didn't say outright they pitied him. He finished his bagel, and he didn’t miss at all the weight of Frank’s hand when he took it away. “Are there any bagels left?” Mike knew the box was still open, and he was pretty sure there were still a few in there, but he didn’t want to say outright he couldn't – he couldn't see them.

“Three,” Sister Maggie said, and she pushed the box so it knocked against his hand.

There. She knew, now. He let his fingers run along the box, then inside, and picked a bagel. He wasn’t hiding anymore. “Are you going to leave, now?” she asked.

“I don’t live here. But I’ll be back.”

“You can stay for as long as you need,” the nun said. “We care for children like you, here.”

“Like me?”

“Children without families that can care for them.”

“How do you know I don’t have a family?”

Frank huffed but Mike could hear the smile in his voice as he said, “You were hiding in a gym, champ.”

“I remember my dad.” Or at least Mike thought he did. The nun’s heartbeat did something funny, and Frank sighed.

“Right now though, he’s not here. How long have you been living in that gym?”

Mike stopped chewing. He… didn’t remember. “A while?”

“All right.”

“Frank,” he said after a moment.

“Yeah.”

“Can I come with you? You said you had a boy too. We could be friends, right?”

Frank’s heart stuttered. “Ah, shit. I can’t. I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t live – I don’t have a proper house where you could live. But if you stay here I’ll come say hi often, all right? I’ll bring my dog.”

“Oh,” Mike said. “Okay.” He didn’t know what else to add, so he finished his bagel and drank the glass of milk the Sister thumped in front of him and thought that maybe the Lord had brought him here for a reason. Maybe God was looking out for him, now. Maybe he was allowed to not be cold and not be hungry, now. “Okay, then.”

“I’m glad,” the nun said. “We can do better than a cold gym with no food, I think.”

Mike just wanted to hope it would turn out all right, so he wouldn’t keep hearing the voice telling Matty he was too weak. He wasn’t sure who Matty was, but he didn’t want to think too hard about it.

 

Karen woke up early enough to go to for a run, but a message from Frank made her put her trainers back in their bag. _Found him. Come to St Agnes, ask for Maggie._ Matt’s mom? Was he back under that church? Frank wasn’t saying anything about the state Matt was in, and that didn’t bode well. She decided to wait until she knew more before calling Foggy, and she hoped he wouldn’t hold it against her too much afterwards.

She rushed through her shower, slapped some mascara on and a dash of gloss, and got to the church in record time. She made directly for the basement and crypt that she already knew, and she didn’t meet anybody until she found Frank making coffee in the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway and watched him. She couldn't see any bruise, and he looked well. Calm.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.” His eyes met hers for only a brief moment, and he raised the coffee pot as he got a mug out. “Want some?”

“Sure.” So that was how he wanted to play it. Ignore that he’d been avoiding her for months, that he’d answer her messages but never get in touch himself, that if she asked him to find Matt he would but that he’d still play the _I’m too broken for humankind_ card. Karen could feel her blood pulsating at her temples already. “You look good.”

“Yeah. You too.” He sat at the table and slid her coffee in her direction, all while looking down into his.

She sighed and braced herself. She’d have to drag answers out of him, but that was fine. She could do that. “You said you’d found him. Is he here?”

“He is. He’s okay.” She narrowed her eyes and waited. “Mostly.”

“You didn’t get me to come here just to say that.”

“No.” He drank some coffee, tilted the now half-empty mug left and right. “Last night. Was looking for him at that old gym and bumped into Mahoney. We found someone hiding in there.”

“Someone?” Karen’s blood ran cold. Was it that woman, the one who couldn't stay dead, the one that made Matt lose all common sense? “Who?”

Frank finished his coffee and stood up. “Come and see for yourself.”

She followed him up into the orphanage itself, and he led her to a sort of library and study room. One kid was there, sitting at a table and reading something, a large book open in the table before him. Karen could only see his side, a skinny arm and dark red hair, and she wondered why he wasn’t in class with the others. It was well within school hours, she knew.

Frank knocked on the open door and the kid didn’t move, showed no surprise at all. He just said, “Hi, Frank. Ma’am?”

“How can you tell I’m with a woman?”

How did the kid know someone was there without looking and that it was Frank, and even worse how could he tell Frank was with a woman? Well, the Ma’am was kind of cute, but everything else was pretty creepy. “I’m Karen.”

“Hi, Karen. I like your perfume,” the boy said. “I’m Mike. I think.”

Frank rolled his eyes. “You picked that name. Stick to it.”

The kid shrugged, and Karen suddenly realized he still hadn’t looked in their direction. She took a few steps inside the room and gasped. The book he was reading didn’t have any words on it, or rather, it had words she couldn't read. Little raised dots all over the pages, familiar and alien at the same time. “He’s blind,” she said.

Mike frowned. “I’m not deaf.”

Right. “You’re blind,” she amended.

He closed the book and stood up. “Can I go to the kitchen?” he asked Frank.

“You hungry?” Mike shrugged. “Sister Maggie said there’s a common room upstairs. It’s empty now, you could get the feel of the place.”

“Alright.”

“Don’t forget your cane, kid.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Pretend you do, for now.” Mike made a face, but still picked up the cane leaning against the table and half-heartedly tapped it around as he made his way to the door. “Manners.”

With a very put-upon expression, Mike turned to Karen and muttered, “Goodbye, Ms Karen.”

“Goodbye.”

The boy took a couple more steps and Frank cleared his throat. “You’re going to leave anyway,” the kid said.

“I’ll be back,” Frank said. Mike didn’t react. “You’re a little punk, you know that? C’mere.”

Karen had never seen Frank around children, and she’d never really thought about how he was with them. She knew he’d been a dad, she knew one of the friends that he pretended he didn’t have had two kids. But she had also never expected to see a moody kid with temper issues turn around and take a fistful of Frank’s sweatshirt. He obviously was holding himself back from going for a full hug, and Frank didn’t force it. He ruffled the kid’s hair and then gave him a little push in the shoulder with a soft, “Yeah, you go now, champ,” and Mike almost tripped on his own feet running away.

“Wow,” Karen said after a while.

“Yeah.” Frank closed the door behind them and led her to a window that he opened. The sound of traffic and city life reached them from the other side of the building. “Remind you of anyone?”

“He should?”

“C’mon, Karen.” He glanced up and shook his head, and when she followed his gaze she saw another widow was opened on the floor above. “He’s listening in, the little punk. Fine.” He closed the window and crossed his arm, head to the side. “Right. We’ll go to your office, alright?”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

After he’d gone to take his jacket and left a note on the kitchen table, he met her at the front door and they walked away. Once they’d left St Agnes a couple blocks behind, he spoke again.

“So. How would you describe that kid?”

“I’ve only seen him for a few minutes.”

“Indulge me.”

“Fine. Uh, he’s blind. Stubborn, rude, and a bit creepy.” She was _not_ over the perfume comment yet.

“So? Remind you of anyone?”

Who should he – shit. “No,” she said. “He’s Matt’s kid?” Matt had had a son, and he’d never told anyone about it? That was typical of him. Hiding things, lying about important stuff… Karen gritted her teeth. She’d read him the riot act as soon as he was in. What was he thinking? And he’d left him in an orphanage, in the care of his own mother, too. How shittier could he be?

“He wouldn’t let his kid grow up without his dad,” Frank said. Karen took a deep breath. Yeah, he was right. Matt wouldn't. “No, the kid _is_ Murdock.”

“What? No! That makes even less sense.”

“The Sister recognizes him. He’s got the same crazy hearing, too. You said he wasn’t born with it, so why would his kid have it too? It’s him.”

“It’s just not possible.”

“Look, I’m only telling you what I know, not how or why.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You heard from Murdock lately?”

Karen wanted to scream in frustration. “You know I haven’t. But this kid – what’s going to happen to him?”

“Don’t know.”

They reached the brand new Nelson, Murdock, & Page office, and Karen rested her hand on Frank’s arm. “You like him.” Frank looked at his feet, then to the cars driving past them. “And he likes you, too.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“He doesn’t have to stay in an orphanage.”

“Don’t, Karen.”

“Fine.” Maybe it was too soon. “Want to come up?”

“No. I’ll just… yeah.”

“Right. Be safe, Frank, alright?”

“You too.”

She squeezed his arm and he gave her a small nod and smaller smile, and he turned back in the direction of St Agnes. She watched him go and braced herself for the day. She still wasn’t convinced Mike wasn’t Matt’s secret lovechild, maybe with that assassin ex that no one ever talked about around him, but she didn’t think she would get answers easily. It didn’t seem very Matt-like to not take care of a child of his, but it was still more believable than whatever it was Frank had suggested. What else could the kid be? A cousin? But why would he be blind, too? A… clone? A shape-shifter from outer space? No. The son theory remained the simplest, and Karen put her faith in Occam’s razor more than crazy aliens.

She took the stairs to the second floor where their offices were and started on her work. With Foggy meeting a client before coming here, she had time to plan how to corner him about Matt’s past. If Mike was his son, he’d have had him right around college, right? She wanted answers, and she’d get them.

 

No one had seen hair or hide of Matt or his alter ego, and Foggy was about ready to tear his hair out. And he liked his hair. it might be shorter than it had been but it was still awesome, and he was growing it out again anyway. Just a little, because Marci liked it and he wasn’t working at HB&C any longer.

So, tearing it out was a clear sign of distress, and only one Matt Murdock could elicit such extreme answers. _Fuck you, Matt_ , Foggy thought. Murdock wasn’t answering his phone, he hadn’t been home in days, he’d just gone poof. Foggy had checked his apartment, of course; he still had a key. But the same dirty mug was in the sink, and the bills kept piling, and even his Daredevil chest sat untouched in the cupboard, complete with mask and boots and batons. Whatever had happened to him, he’d been Matt the blind lawyer and not the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He’d thought to ask Jessica if she could trace his phone or find someone who could, but she was the one to call him first and ask about Matt. His little band of vigilante buddies had also noticed his disappearance and they too were trying and failing to find him.

That's why Karen had suggested Castle. He was a last resort, but dammit, Matt had disappeared again, and this time there was no clue as to what had happened to him. No collapsed building, no report of Daredevil being shot, he’d just gone missing. And Foggy wanted to be angry, he really did. Karen managed it after all, and it would be better than this gnawing fear in his gut, right? But Foggy Nelson had been worried for Matt Murdock for too long to be able to stop, now. Some people smoked, some drank, Foggy worried. That was how things were.

When he reached their new office though, Foggy found Karen almost appeared calm. She was frowning at her computer screen and clicking her nails against her mouse and looking decidedly less angry than the day before, so Foggy knew she’d found something.

“Hey, Karen. You look like you got your teeth sunk into something.”

She nodded back at him, her eyes never leaving whatever she was reading. “Yeah. Frank called this morning.”

“He found him?” Foggy half-sat, half-fell in the chair in front of her desk. “Karen, don’t make me wait.”

“He thinks he’s found him.”

“Ah!”

“Foggy…” Karen finally looked up from her computer. “I’ve tried searching online, but I can’t find anything. Maybe you’d know. Does Matt have a son?”

“What?”

“You know, an accident, broken condom… something like that? While you were in college, roughly?”

“ _What?_ ”

She pushed the screen down to look at him better, and her eyes were laser-like. “Don’t lie to me, Foggy. I saw him. The kid, not Matt.”

“I’m… going to need more explanations, Karen. As far as I know, Matt never had a kid.”

“Frank found a kid last night, while he was out looking for Matt. He and Brett were in Fogwell’s, and they found a kid they took to St Agnes. One of the sisters who knew Matt as a kid recognized him and said he looked just like him.”

“His mom?”

“You know?”

“I guessed. Shit, she’s a grandma now. What’s the kid like?”

“Skinny. Moody. Blind.”

Foggy laughed. “Sounds like – wait. No, his kid wouldn't be blind. It’s not genetic.”

“That’s what Frank said. But what else can it be? You don’t wake up 20 years younger. And we still don’t know where Matt is.”

“Okay, right, it doesn’t sound possible.” Although given some of the crazy things that happened sometimes… Foggy himself wasn’t entirely over the existence, in this day and age, of Captain America or Thor. “Matt doesn’t know about the kid. If he did, he wouldn't have left him alone, right? Where was he before? And does he have a name?”

“Mike, but Frank says he picked that name himself.”

“It’s Matt’s middle name.” Karen’s mouth pinched. She probably knew but was annoyed she hadn’t made the connection. “So Frank found a kid who looks just like Matt, who is suspiciously blind, and that no one’s ever heard about?”

“Do you think he could have had a baby with Elektra?”

Foggy gaped at her. “Elektra? No, no way.”

“Way. Could have been why she left in college; she finds out she’s pregnant, wants to keep the kid, he’s raised in the crazy cult he told us about, and now it’s all collapsed he’s ended up fending for himself.”

Shit. That made a disturbing amount of sense after all, and Foggy didn’t like it one bit. Not one bit. “But how does it explain Matt’s, um, disappearance?”

“I don’t know. Look, maybe you should go to St Agnes, see that Mike kid for yourself. You’ve known him the longest, maybe there’s something…” Karen’s voice tapered out.

“Yeah, maybe there’s something.” Foggy didn’t want to believe any of this could be good, but he’d definitely go see this Mike.

And he absolutely didn't check adoption websites in case Matt never reappeared to learn about this maybe-son of his and take care of him like Foggy knew he would if Matt knew about him. Fuck, maybe that would make him quit his night activities? That kid could save Matt. But first, of course, they had to _find_ Matt.

 

The common room Mike was in had worn furniture, and it was very different from the gym. There was a half-empty box of sweets on a table and an ancient fridge humming in the corner and computers that he couldn't use. He also found a TV set, printed books, a scratchy throw over the biggest sofa, and boxes that rattled when he shook them. He opened one and found dice, laminated cards, and random pieces, so he put it back where he’d found it.

Sitting on the sofa and playing with the scratchy wool under his hands, he didn’t know what to do. Everything in this place felt vaguely familiar but just distorted enough that he felt mostly lost and confused. It was a bit like he’d seen it all in a dream, before. He hadn’t been blind that long, he still remembered seeing, he still dreamed about it. Smells and sounds and tastes brought images to his mind, sometimes, but he didn’t think he had any of this orphanage. That place, he knew, _was_ an orphanage. Because they thought he was an orphan, and he couldn’t say they were wrong. He didn’t remember his mom at all, and his dad felt… far away. He didn’t want to think about it.

So yes, the place was familiar; the Sister who’d shown him around, the building itself… it was like he’d been here before, like he’d known her before, but he couldn't actually place any of it. It was all in that hazy _before_ that blanketed everything until that day he woke up right by a fire escape, tangled in strange clothes and surrounded by strange noises and strange smells and strange everything. The car engines sounded different, the garbage far down smelled different, people spoke different, but he couldn't say _how_ different. It all just was. Or maybe it was him, just him, and everything else was normal.

The woman Frank had come back with, Karen, was familiar too: her perfume, her shampoo… he knew them. But she’d talked to him like people did when they learned he was blind. He hadn’t wanted anyone to know he was blind, but Frank had asked him, and Mike didn’t want to lie to Frank. And then he’d told the Sister. Sort of. She’d understood, though. Maybe she’d already guessed, like Frank had. Mike didn’t like thinking he was that easy to read. _Weak_. The word echoed in his memory.

That voice in his head… it was another thing that made blood pound harder in his head. It kept echoing around in his skull, telling him he wasn’t good enough and never would be and…

He was scared, and confused, and he didn’t even know what his name was, Mike or Matty or something else. He was all alone in a place he didn’t know, and he had to rely on people he didn’t know, and so he crawled between the sofa and the wall and covered himself with the scratchy throw and cried himself to sleep there as silently as he could.

 

Today was one of those days where Maggie really, really missed Paul. He’d seen much all through his life, and it had only made his compassion and grounded strength greater. She needed his guidance, today. She told the Mother Superior about their new ward early in the morning and talked with the other Sisters about what they should do first – an assessment of his needs, some specific supplies, a visit to the doctor. Paperwork, so much paperwork for a child that appeared out of nowhere, but Mother Ann knew people. They would help. He’d need a school, too. Mike could clearly read, but they didn’t know where he came from. What schooling had he received? Maggie tried not to dwell on who he actually was. That was too fresh, for now.

After Frank had left, she found him clean clothes and an old cane of Matthew’s, and showed him his room and where the showers and restrooms were on the dorm floor. When he was ready, she led him to the library and the section where Matthew’s old Braille books still were. He’d left them after he’d gone to university, and Maggie hadn't had the heart to get rid of them. They’d seen little use. St Agnes had only had two more visually impaired or blind wards since Matthew but both had been adopted out very quickly. The books had been gathering dust since then, but Mike didn’t seem to mind. He blew the dust off and ran his fingers on the titles – _The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe_ he passed over, he stopped on _The Hobbit_ and looked a bit intrigued by the name before continuing to a _Prayers for Children_ book, schoolbooks, and other titles she vaguely remembered.

“You’re welcome to read them,” Maggie said. “Just put them back here when you’re done.”

“Thank you,” he said. He pulled a book out and sat at a desk after carefully leaning the cane she’d dug out for him against the wood.

“Will you be all right on your own here, Mike?”

“Yes, thank you, Sister.” So polite, so calm. She knew he wasn’t, but a few hours’ sleep had clearly helped his mood.

“The other children will eat at school, but you can come and eat lunch with the congregation, if you'd like.”

“Okay.”

She watched him for a little while, his fingertips quick on the raised dots and a look of concentration on his face, before going to the infirmary to check on Juan, who was down with a bad cold.

Her morning duties done, Maggie went up to get Mike from the library, but he wasn’t there anymore. She went to his room, the kitchen, the crypt, and didn’t find him anywhere. She closed her eyes and tried to remember what Matthew would do back then, then told herself he wasn’t exactly Matthew, _then_ remembered she hadn’t gone to the common room yet. It was chilly when she walked in, and she first went to close the window. It shouldn’t have been open, but she had a pretty good idea of who’d done it.

Once the city noises were a bit muffled, she could hear the room more clearly; the buzzing of the old fridge and quiet, deep breathing that grew a bit too regular as she was listening. The old afghan was missing from the couch, but she saw a bit of wool peek out from behind it. _Gotcha_. Maggie sat on the floor and waited for him to admit he’d woken up. The afghan moved, and she smiled. It wasn’t like he would see her face, anyway.

“Not the most comfortable place for a nap,” she said.

He crawled out, dragging the afghan behind him. “It was quieter.”

“You could have closed the window.”

He didn't say anything right away, folding the afghan first and setting it on the couch. “Is it lunchtime?” Mike finally asked.

“It is. Are you hungry?”

“A little.”

“Do you want to eat with the Sisters?” She looked at him, his slightly pinched face, his slightly red eyes. “You don’t have to. I can fix you something in the kitchen.”

“Please,” he said.

“Alright. But don’t get used to it, Mike.”

He followed her down the stairs to the kitchen, washed his hands when she directed him to the sink, and even asked if he could help with anything.

“Can you help with the washing-up after lunch?”

He nodded, and soon enough he was quietly eating the simple sandwich she’d put together for him. What was happening behind his unnervingly familiar eyes? This child was, at the same time, wary of the grownups around him and so, so alone in the world.

He’d latched on to Frank right away though, and while it rankled that he didn’t latch on to _her_ , she could understand why. She knew Frank was, sort of, friends with Matthew, and that he’d had two children himself. It was hard to believe this man was also the fearsome Punisher who left a trail of bodies behind him, but then again Matthew… Matthew was a violent man, too. Not a killer but never too far from one. Maggie feared for him, but seeing Frank with the child was somehow reassuring. Seeing that he still had that gentleness in him after all that had happened to him, and seeing that gentleness directed to Matthew, albeit a different version of him, made her hope. She hoped that Matthew would never lose his own, and she hoped that Frank would never let him go too far, as far as _he_ had gone.

Twenty years ago, she hadn’t seen the depth of this rage in Matthew, or rather she hadn’t wanted to see it. His withdrawing even more after the old man had left, the anger constantly simmering under the surface, the fights he used to get into… but she’d had no right to be his mother after leaving him with Jack, and she couldn’t have treated him differently. Right? She couldn’t have. He had every right to be angry, a blind orphan that nobody wanted to adopt and who didn’t let anyone get too close. Maggie had prayed he’d find peace, as she’d prayed for all the other children in their care. He wasn’t hers anymore, she couldn’t give him special treatment. Or so she’d thought, back then. Now, she didn’t know anymore.

“Thank you, Sister,” Mike said. She blinked her thoughts away and watched him take his plate and glass to the sink.

“Come back in – do you have a watch, Mike?” He shook his head. “We’ll have to find you something. You can help me with Juan’s tray, then.”

“Okay.”

He helped her prepare Juan’s lunch and went with her to open doors for her as she carried the tray to the infirmary, but he didn’t stay to talk with Juan. He went back to the kitchen and she found him kneeling on a chair and elbows deep in suds, washing the dishes with a determined face like his life depended on it.

“Thank you for taking care of those,” Maggie said. He didn’t answer. Maybe he thought he had to, to earn his keep. “You don’t have to do them all by yourself, Mike.” She set herself next to him and they worked together in sync, like they’d never done in any other life. She hoped he couldn’t somehow sense her eyes becoming a little misty.

She feared that might happen quite a few times again, in the days to come.

 

After about five minutes with him, Foggy knew. The kid was Matt. He was scrawny, frowny, and too Catholic for his own good.

When Foggy got to St Agnes, Sister Maggie met him at the door and took him to the library, where she said he was getting ready for school on Monday.

“He keeps to himself,” the Sister said. “I know it’s not even been two days, but I don’t think he’s done more than answer direct questions with anyone but Frank or me. Maybe you’ll be lucky.”

“Do you really think…?” Foggy couldn’t say it out loud, not when the kid could hear them.

She sat on a chair near the door and waved her hand at the boy. “I’ll let you make up your own mind,” she said.

Instead of school stuff, however, the kid was surrounded by books with big embossed crosses on their covers. Foggy didn’t need to be able to read Braille to know what books they were. The cane, the dark glasses, the scrunched up face as he was reading… Shit.

He walked to the table 'Mike' was sitting at, pulled a chair out and sat down. “Hi,” he said.

The kid finally raised his head, keeping a finger on the line he’d been on. “Hello.”

“My name’s, uh. Everybody calls me Foggy.” The frown was still there on the kid’s face. “What’s yours?”

“Mike.”

“That's, um. That’s a good name.” Foggy floundered. “How old are you?”

The kid’s face turned in Sister Maggie’s direction. “I don't want to be adopted,” he said. “Why are you trying to get rid of me already?”

Shit. “I’m not here to adopt you.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“Well, I know Karen, Frank, and Maggie. Brett’s a childhood friend, too. So I heard about you, and I wanted to meet you.” This clearly didn’t cut it. Time for the big guns. “Hey, I’m not here to hurt you or steal you or anything. Shouldn't you dissent from the fear, the hatred, and the mistrust?”

The kid leaned over his book with an earnest look on his face, and that was when Foggy knew. “Thurgood Marshall? You know him?”

“Sure do. I’m an attorney.”

And Mike, who absolutely _was_ Matt, sat back and gave him a sudden, sunny smile that threw Foggy back to their student days. “I want to be an attorney when I grow up.”

“Oh, kid. I’m sure you’ll make a great one.”

After that, ‘Mike’ opened up and asked him all sort of questions about how he’d become a lawyer, what the work was like when he wasn’t in court, if he liked it, what stories he had…

After an hour, Foggy left definitely-Matt to his Bible and looked for Sister Maggie, who’d left them alone once they’d got the conversation going. She was mending a child’s coat, but she put her sewing aside when she saw him come in.

“Let’s go for a walk,” she said, and Foggy followed her. They couldn't really have a chat where Matt could hear them.

Once they’d found a free bench in a playground area, he sat and faced her. “You were right, Sister. That’s him. But _how_ it can be him…”

“It’s unnerving, isn’t it.” Her hands twisted a little in her lap. “Knowing his life, knowing what he went through, thinking maybe we can help better, now.”

“He’s just so young.”

“He came to us when he was around that age. Sometimes, I think he remembers things from later, but it’s hard to be sure.”

“What things?”

“The way he plays with his cane, for example. He’s using it like a weapon, and the old man who…” She shook her head. “He didn’t start doing that until he was about twelve. Not where we could see it, anyway.”

“What’s going to happen, now?” Foggy looked at the empty swings moving gently back and forth. “What if he stays like that?” _What if I’ve lost my friend_ , he didn’t say. Matt wasn’t dead, but the kid wasn’t really _his_ Matt, either. Foggy wasn’t sure he could cope.

“Maybe he won’t. We don’t know what happened.” Maggie took a deep breath. “Have you gotten in touch with your, ah, powered-people contacts? They could have heard something.”

“I’ve left a message to a couple of them, yes.” Danny, because he seemed closest to magic; Jessica, because she was like a dog with a bone if she thought something felt wrong. Foggy had just asked if they’d heard about anything strange happening around. “I’ll let you know.”

“You’re a good friend to Matthew.”

They hadn’t always been, to each other. But they were better now. “We go back a long way.”

“He speaks very highly of you.” Foggy failed to contain a probably very silly-looking smile. Kid Matt was cute and the Sister was probably happy to get a second chance with him, but… he hoped they’d get Matt – the real, adult Matt – back soon. Not that the kid didn’t deserve to live, or that Matt didn’t deserve a better childhood, but… ah, shit.

“I’m sorry,” Foggy said. Fuck, he wasn’t crying, but his voice was rougher than he’d like. “He’s just – he’s so young, you know? And maybe he could have an easier go at it, now? But I want my Matt back.”

She handed him a tissue. “I know,” she said. “Me, too.”

 

Marci didn't say anything when he got back home, just ran them a warm, foamy bath and joined him in the tub and let him work through his feelings in peace. She really was the best.

 

Three times a week, Frank came to St Agnes to spend some time with the kid. He’d promised, after all, and he wouldn't come back on his word to a boy who looked up to him. Whoever that boy was. Would be. Had been. Ah, fuck; this kid Murdock thing was a mess.

Three times a week, Frank came to St Agnes and did his best to get the kid out of his shell. Matt was wary, and he always had a brief look of surprise whenever he heard Frank coming back, but Sister Maggie said his visits made a world of difference, and so Frank wouldn't stop.

He hadn’t been the best of fathers with his own boy: he hadn’t been there at his birth, he hadn’t always known how to raise a boy, he hadn’t always listened right. His baby girl, she’d been perfect, and he’d never wondered what to do with her. But Frank Jr? He was an enigma. He’d loved him, he missed him, and he always would; but damn if he’d known how to be his father. And then all three of them… yeah.

But Frank could be there for this kid, for however long he was needed. He could try to do some good, be better than he’d been with Frank Jr and give Mike something better than what he’d been given before. But he tried to forget this was a younger Red, because that was too messed up.

At the end of the second week, he brought Loot. Loot was some sort of mixed breed dog he’d ended up with after getting rid of his meth-dealing owners, and he was a sweet and faithful kind. That there was some pit bull into the gene pool meant a lot of people looked at him with fear, but that was fine by Frank. The Punisher’s dog should inspire fear.

But he didn’t want Mike, who still didn’t trust easily according to the Sister, to be scared of Loot. The kid was too full of bravado and bull-headedness to show it if he was scared, but not showing it didn’t mean he didn’t feel it. Frank knew better now, he knew better than to trust a little boy’s brave face. He hadn’t, back then.

Mike was waiting for him on the front stairs of St Agnes, a dark red scarf around his neck that he remembered Murdock wearing. He’d thought it a bit too pointed, but maybe he didn’t know it was red. Sister Maggie was sitting next to him, a paper bag dangling from her hand. When Frank reached them the kid’s attention was immediately drawn to Loot and so was the Sister’s.

“So that’s the dog,” Maggie said.

“Yeah. Loot,” Frank replied. Maggie narrowed her eyes. “He’s well-trained.”

“Fine. Don’t let the dog slobber all over your clothes, Mike. Especially not my scarf.” The kid shook his head. “Here, for later,” she added, standing up and thrusting the bag at Frank.

“Thank you, Sister.”

“Don’t get used to it: we just made too much.”

Mike grinned and Frank’s own lips twitched. “Sure,” he only said.

“Off you go,” she said as she shoved Mike forward before going back inside.

This time Frank did smile. “You ready, champ?”

The kid stopped about two feet from Frank, his cane against the stair lip, and tilted his head. “It’s a big dog,” he said.

“Yeah. Want to say hi?” Loot was vibrating with the urge to go sniff this new human, but he remained sitting at Frank's side. _Good boy_ , he thought.

“How?”

“Come down and pet his head. He won’t bite.”

“I’m not afraid.”

Of course not. “I know. Just be careful with your cane, so he doesn’t think you’re a threat.”

That seemed to surprise him, but he held the cane out to Frank once he got down the stairs. “No one thinks blind people are a threat.”

“Loot doesn’t know you’re blind. He doesn’t care.” Frank wondered if Murdock ever had, or wanted, a dog. He probably didn’t need one to guide him around, but dogs weren’t only tools.

“Oh.” That seemed to please him, and he reached out to touch Loot’s head. “Like that?”

“Firm touch, you can scratch around his ears too. Most dogs like that. Yeah, that’s it, champ, you're doing great,” Frank added when Mike followed his advice. Loot’s tail was wagging like crazy and his happy little noises made Mike laugh out loud, which surprised the hell out of both Frank and the kid.

“And now?”

“Now, we take a walk.” He nudged a skinny arm with the white cane so Mike grabbed it and took the kid’s free hand in his. “You any good at baseball?”

“I’m blind.”

“So? You can still throw, right?”

“I can throw punches,” the boy answered, cocky as you please. “I lived in a gym.”

Already a little shit, but at least he wasn’t (yet) preaching the Gospel at him. Frank sure liked the kid Murdock version more than the grownup one.

 

Brett tried to put the image of Frank Castle carrying a sleepy child out of his mind, but it somehow stuck. The Punisher himself, a man he’d seen covered with blood and surrounded by corpses on more than one occasion, could be gentle and sweet too. Brett didn’t mention any of it to his Ma, of course; he’d never hear the end of it. He did mention it to Foggy, because Foggy had represented that madman a couple years ago. And if he told Foggy, then Karen Page would know, and what _she_ knew might come back to Brett via Foggy. Clever, right? Brett was trying the networking thing, but he wasn’t sure he was really doing it right. Lawyers, pft. Not sure they could help his career.

But Foggy had already heard about the kid because, of course, Castle had told Karen, and both Page and Nelson had gone over to St Agnes to coo over Mike a few times. The whereabouts of their vigilante buddy were still unknown, though, and that was probably why Foggy looked a bit teary when Brett described how tiny the kid had looked in Castle’s arms. The man was seriously fit; must be all the weaponry he was constantly lugging around, right? But their friendly neighborhood mass murderer was supposed to look for Daredevil, who was so far still MIA. Maybe he was in cahoots with Murdock, exacting law and disorder somewhere not here – which, if you asked Brett, was where such things should happen. Maybe they were both in San Francisco, where Page said Murdock had gone to help an old college buddy out of a legal bind of some sort. Let them wreak mayhem on the West Coast for a change, right?

But alas, Detective Brett Mahoney could not be granted peace, ever. Just as he was contemplating a Sunday afternoon digesting his Ma’s cooking on her couch and half-listening to her gossip, his phone rang. He was on call this weekend, and he hadn’t turned it off.

“Ah, sh-” His Ma gave him a stern look. “Shame,” he finished while fishing his phone out of his pocket. “Mahoney.”

“Sorry, Brett, but the Captain wants you in on this one.”

“Yeah, what? I’m on call, Will. Hit me.”

“Tom Otterness Playground, you know the place?”

“Sure, grew up two blocks away.”

“Captain said you would, so…” Yeah, yeah, fine. “There’s been a shoot-out.”

“Shit. I’ll head straight away.”

The playground wasn’t far from where shady deals happened in the Hudson rail yards, but it was still full daylight out. Families were out there, keeping an eye on the slides and not thinking for one minute that their wholesome Sunday outing could turn into a horror show.

Brett hugged his Ma, checked his gun was loaded and the safety was on, clipped his badge back on his belt, and was out of the door in less than a minute. He found people running away from the park, panic in their eyes. When he hooked his ear piece on he heard nothing helpful – shots fired, screaming, two officers down near the rail yards. Out of commission but non-lethal injuries, they’d reported. Shit. The usual patrols had been spaced out today because of some foreign officials meetup near the UN headquarters which demanded they focused more squads around there, and that meant less for the protection of the normal, regular people living normal, regular lives. Brett was the closest operational cop around.

Once he got to the playground, it looked empty. Empty but for a few corpses bleeding out on the ground – shit, one was moving and a couple others were actually moaning. Not actual corpses yet, then. Damn, he wished the backup he’d requested were already here. He took a few cautious steps into the wide open area before the giant, creepy statue-slide and found another guy knocked out cold. He had bite marks on his arms and dull blades or, uh, probably claws had torn through his clothes. Fuck, Brett’s palms were sweaty.

A low growl came from behind the giant creepy foot of the giant creepy statue and a very unexpected voice said, “Down, Loot.” The growl stopped immediately, and Castle came out from behind the (giant, creepy) metal foot.

“You,” Brett said.

Castle looked like he’d seen a ghost and tried to murder it anyway. He was pale and, of course, bloody, but he didn’t seem to be injured from what Brett could see. “Mahoney.”

“The dog yours?”

“Yeah.”

“Licensed?”

Castle blinked at him. “That’s what you’re here for?”

Well, no, but it was still a valid question. “What the fuck, Castle?” Brett said while gesturing at the half-dozen men in various states of unconsciousness around them.

“Idiots. Bad case of terminal stupidity. Seen the kid?”

“What kid?”

“Fogwell’s.”

“Fog… _Mike_?”

“Told him to go hide and wait for me, but now I got rid of that scum I can’t find him. Loot can’t either.” Loot? Ah, the monster dog with giant fangs, yes.

“He’s blind, Castle. How’s he going to know where to hide? And who are these people?”

“He’s smart.” Well, it was good of Frank to have faith in that kid, but also what was he doing with him? A shit-sandwich kind of situation for Detective Mahoney, yet again.

“Still blind, man.”

The unfriendly neighborhood Punisher looked at the bodies on the ground. “There were ten guys, there’s only seven down.”

“You think they took the kid?”

Castle frowned. “I’ll kill them.”

“No, you won’t; that’s not how it works.”

“Those assholes came here to do business thinking they would be safe from each other in the middle of kids and families, and they…” Castle's voice got up in anger and suddenly broke. “Kid’s not here anymore,” he said more softly. He pulled a gun from the back of his pants and made to finish the men he’d left alive, which was rather un-Punisher-like but apparently had been for the sake of one little boy. Brett did not want to have any kind of feelings, especially the sad, empathetic kind of feelings, for Frank Castle. No. Nope. No way.

Brett stepped right into the muzzle of the weapon, felt it digging in his chest. “Stop it.”

“Move aside.”

“Don’t do this, Castle.”

With a snarl, Castle lowered the gun. They were surrounded by officers now, their own service weapons aimed at him. “Fuck you.”

“Buy me dinner first,” Brett said. “Guys, a boy is missing. White, dark red hair, about ten. Blind. Called Mike. Secure the area. Witness here says three more attackers escaped, possibly with the kid.”

“That’s not a witness,” an officer said. “That’s the Punisher.”

“Yes, well. Person of interest.”

“Sure,” the officer mumbled, but at least no one protested. Brett was well aware that quite a few fellow cops shared his Ma’s views about vigilantes, and those who didn’t were rightfully scared of Castle. At least he’d established some serious cred among the green ones by being seen buddying up to the Punisher himself, right? Silver lining. After all, he was the officer in charge here, and they all had their work cut out for them.

Said Punisher, however, didn’t give a shit. A kid had been taken on his watch, and that was the sure way to get him to lose it.

“Hey, Castle.”

“What.”

“We’ll find him.” That got Brett no reaction.

“It’s not happening again.”

“No it’s not, we won’t let it. Hey…!”

But Castle was already gone, and no one tried to stop him.

Shit.

 

Frank whistled for Loot to follow him and put his leash on, and then they headed for the Hudson yards, man and dog.

He should have killed them, but he hadn’t wanted to scare Mike any more than he probably already was. And he couldn't forget this was Red, too. Red and his no-killing-rules, Red and his lectures about redemption, Red and his fucking Catholic bull. Yeah, Frank should have killed them. He should have killed them, but he didn’t, and now those scum assholes had kidnapped a blind kid. A four feet tall, sixty pounds and change, blind kid. A mouthy little thing with a white cane, and if kid-Murdock was anything like the adult version he’d try and fight them, noodle arms and all. And _they_ had fucking guns.

Frank was going to make them eat their own bullets.

Mahoney didn’t try to stop him, at least. That gave Frank a head start while the detective did his job in the playground, and whether that was intentional on Mahoney’s part or not, Frank didn’t care. He had a mission, he had a kid to save, and this time, this time, he’d do it right.

Once they reached the yards, he unclipped Loot’s leash and pulled the kid’s scarf out of his pocket. Loot sniffed it before putting his nose to the ground, and Frank checked the guns he’d appropriated from the assholes he’d taken down. Four guns, a couple clips of ammo. Not much.

Fuck, he’d only come to take Mike to the park and play ball with his dog. He hadn't brought weapons. It hadn’t been supposed to end in a firefight. He hadn’t been supposed to lose the boy – but he hadn’t. Not yet. Kid was here, Frank knew it. And this time, he’d get him back safe and whole. Frank had seen them coming this time, he’d pushed Mike behind him, he’d yelled at the people out there with their dogs and their strollers and shit to get out. He’d wrestled a guy down and taken his Glock and sicced Loot on another one that had been too close. And then it had been a mess: screams and people running out and shots being fired and it had been familiar. Easy. Comfortable.

Until they were either down or away, and he realized he couldn’t find the kid. That moment was playing on repeat in his head as he crept between the trains, car after car after engine, stepping over the tracks and his finger along the barrel, ready to shoot. Finally, he heard voices. Angry ones.

They were arguing over fucking up a deal in broad daylight, one blaming their men and the other blaming the idea of the operation itself. Frank waited a bit in case they mentioned a hostage, but nothing. They didn’t say anything. Frank strolled to them like a man lost in the yard looking for his dog, making a show of looking under cars and calling for ‘Buster’ (Frank never claimed to be imaginative). When he got close enough to the two assholes who were scowling at him, he put one in a choke and aimed a gun on the other.

“Kid from the playground. Talk.”

The man whose throat he was squeezing pissed himself, but the other was more combative. He made to take something from his belt and Frank shot his leg out from under him. “I said talk.”

But they had nothing useful to say, and so Frank put a couple bullets in them. No loose ends. Not this time.

Train after train, track after track, car after car, Frank searched the yard. Loot hadn’t come back to him yet, and he hoped that he hadn’t been captured or worse.

Empty, empty, empty – until he got to a part of the yard filled with old, unused trains and he found a strange car. It had a satellite dish half hidden under a tarp on the roof, way too many wires running in and out of it, and given the rust that joined train wheels and tracks together it had been there for a while. This was it. This was the place. They were hiding here.

“Buster?” Frank called, his gun hidden in his jacket but his trigger finger itching to fire.

One guy got out of the car, scowl on his face and rifle in his hand. A fucking rifle. “Who’re you?”

“Oh, hi. Looking for my dog. Ran away. Stubborn mutt, you know?” Little Red would recognize Frank’s voice, right? His freaky ears would pick it up.

“No dog around here.” Rifle guy was almost fondling his weapon. “No nothing.”

“No dog? Damn,” Frank said. “You sure? Was really hoping to find him.” He’d got close enough to slam an elbow into the asshole’s sternum, wrestle the rifle away, smash its butt in the guy’s mug. Like that nose? Too bad, fuckface. Frank stepped up into the car and looked around, but no Loot. No Mike. No one. Asshole had been guarding the car, but it was empty. Probably enough shit to incriminate whoever needed incriminating, but that wasn’t Frank’s mission. He got out, looked around, listened carefully – there. He knew that growl.

Frank followed the sound to the car it was coming from, and plastered himself against the metal. He couldn’t hear anyone around. Why was Loot not coming out, then? Was he hurt? Was the kid hurt? Shit, what if he was?

Frank rushed inside, rifle first. It was dark and quiet, apart from Loot’s one bark. A welcome back bark. Frank lowered the rifle just a little and moved forward. There was just enough light to see shapes. Something was glistening on the floor – blood. There was blood. Now his eyes were adjusted, he could see there was a body lying on the floor, unmoving in a pool of drying blood. His boots stepped into it and he felt them sticking to the metal plate. He turned the body around with his toe, saw a mauled arm, a dislocated jaw. The fucker groaned.

“What? Didn’t hear nothing.” Jerk didn’t answer, and Frank grabbed his shirt and threw him out. He walked further in, and – yes. He could see Loot’s eyes now, low enough that Frank could tell his dog was lying down, next to – shit. Well, that explained the guy’s fucked up jaw.

“Champ? That you, champ?”

“Frank?” Kid’s voice was high, but it didn't waver. He’d lost his glasses, but his grip on the short piece of rebar he’d found didn’t slacken either.

“That’s me, kid. You alright?”

“There’s more of them outside,” he said. “I can hear them. They’re almost here.”

Ah, fuck. Of course he could. “Okay, I’ll deal with them. Did they hurt you?”

“There’s blood on you. You’re bleeding,” Mike said, and then the rebar clattered on the floor and Little Red was patting Frank all over.

“Not my blood, kid. Hey, hey, I’m fine, yeah?”

But the kid wasn’t listening. “No, he said. “No, no, no…”

Frank caught Mike’s hands and held them. “I’m fine. Breathe, champ. You with me?”

“They’ve got guns,” the kid said. “They’ve got guns.”

“I know. Don’t move, all right? Stay down, and don’t move. I’ll take care of them. Loot,” he added. The dog looked up at him. “Stay with him.”

And Frank got out through the roof door, laid flat, and found the assholes that thought they could ambush him. One batch, two batch – amateurs. He was outgunned and outnumbered, and yet they were easy pickings. He slid down the car and got back inside, where the kid was – shit. He wasn’t inside anymore, and neither was Loot.

Frank ran back outside, his last loaded gun at the ready, but no one was there. The yard was quiet. Too quiet. “Kid? Kid, you there?”

“Frank?”

He looked up, and yeah. He was there, perched on another car. “Told you to stay put.”

“They were shooting through the car,” he said, and Frank’s throat closed.

“They hurt you?” Frank hauled himself up and looked the kid over. “Kid, they hurt you?”

Mike shook his head. “But Loot,” he said. Shit, what? “He jumped out.”

“Okay. Can you hear him? You got great ears. Hear anything?”

Kid tilted his head, just like Red would, then pointed. “There?”

“You’re not sure?” Mike shrugged. “All right, we’ll try there first.”

They climbed down the ladder between the cars and Frank pushed the kid behind him, just in case. Of course, he didn’t like it and stepped around him. “I’m not a kid,” Mike said.

“Sure you’re not.” Frank gently punched Mike’s chin. “Look at that, can’t knock you down.”

Kid kicked his shin, and he wasn’t gentle about it either. “Your punches suck.”

“Oh, yeah? You a pro?”

“My dad’s a boxer.” He fiddled with the zipper on his coat. “Was.”

“Hey,” Frank said. “You did knock that guy down back in there. Looked like he couldn’t close his mouth anymore. Good job.”

“But you got more of them.”

Well, what could he say? Yeah, he did. He shot them down. One shot, one kill. But he wasn’t a 10 year old kid. “Let’s go find the dog,” Frank finally said.

 

Life was full of surprises when one Matt Murdock was your friend. Sure, there had been the _fuck you’re Daredevil_ surprise seasoned with _how can there be so much blood in one person and how can they survive with it_ outside _their body_ , but that was old news. Then there had been the _wow you’re alive_ one, quickly followed by the _you’re such an asshole_ one. But that was all water under the bridge. Matt had gotten better, right? He’d gotten better, and they’d rebuilt their friendship and their practice and their lives and now – now, he had Jessica Jones standing in front of him with both feet planted well apart, and in true Jessica Jones fashion she was pissed and smelling like a distillery.

“The hell, Nelson.” A couple walking past glared at them.

“Yeah, I know.”

“How? How did you know?” She crossed he arms. “I did some digging for you, and ended up at Strange’s door.”

“Strange? So this shit is… magic?”

“Fuck if I know. Magic’s not my thing. But yeah, he said someone had been experimenting on alien shit a few weeks ago and it backfired. People got turned into confused kids, but he said it wore off after a few days. The Feds and the military tried to cover it up and steal the tech but it got destroyed instead. Could be the Punisher; he’s still got contacts with them. Might have heard about it. Or Stark, who knows? But it’s harmless, Strange said.” Her tone conveyed her thoughts on that, and Foggy wondered what she’d have been like, if she’d been… kid-ified? Was that a word? Why not. _Let’s make it a word_ , Foggy decided. It was as good as any other.

“So why is Matt still a kid?”

“Your guess’s as good as mine. Strange said the cases he heard about reverted back quickly, but that he could come take a look.”

They looked at each other. Strange and Matt? “No,” they said at the same time.

“So… we wait?”

“I don’t have any better idea, Nelson.” Jessica sat down on the bench, finally. “What’s he like?”

Foggy grinned. “Kinda cute, actually. He’s – wait.” His phone was buzzing in his pocket, and he got it out. “Brett?”

“Get your ass to the Otterson playground, Fogs. It’s fine, but… just get here, all right?”

Brett hung up, and Foggy stared at his phone. “What now?”

“There’s been a shootout,” Jess said. She was looking at her own phone. “Frank Castle's involved. Rival gangs went at each other but people ran out before it turned into slaughter.” She pocketed her phone and they hurried to the playground five blocks away.

“Why is Brett asking for me?” Foggy asked. Damn, she was walking fast.

“You represented Castle, right?”

“Yeah, but…” What had he been doing in a playground anyway? Wouldn’t that be salt in the wounds or something?

They didn’t say anything else until they got to that weird little place with the statues. Brett spotted them right away and let them get past the yellow tape.

“You were quick.” Brett glanced at Jessica but didn’t say anything about her. “So, remember the kid Castle and I found in Fogwell’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Turns out – just come along.” He led them to an ambulance parked further in the playground. “Find me when you’re, uh. Done,” and Brett went back to his team, already giving orders. He looked half-tired, half-just fed up with everything.

They climbed in and Foggy’s jaw dropped. Frank Castle was there, leaning back against the wall and looking at the body on the cot. A giant dog got to its feet when Jess and Foggy got close, but Frank said, “Down, Loot,” and the dog sat back on its haunches. “He’s fine,” Frank added. “Just sleeping.”

“Who’s – oh god, Matt!”

Frank and Jessica got into a glaring match over the bed, but Foggy didn’t care. Matt, _his_ Matt, was alive and well, his slightly stubbled face slack above the shiny space blanket like he hadn’t seen it in a very long time. Since college probably. Foggy wasn’t going to count the times he’d seen him half-dead, unconscious and bleeding out.

“Frank, what happened?”

“He just, you know. We were walking back, and then he got tired and I carried him, and then…” Frank waved his hand over the bed.

“Did he do a Hulk on his kid clothes then?” Frank and Foggy stared at Jessica. “What? It’s a legit question, right?”

“Got him here before I was carrying a naked guy, then when he was back to… this, medic got him stuff to wear.”

“Right. Good. Yes.”

“He almost doesn't look like an asshole when he’s sleeping,” Jessica said. “Shame I didn’t get to see the tiny version.”

Frank’s face was surprisingly soft, looking down at Matt. “He was a stubborn, fighty little shit.”

“Just like regular Matt, then.”

“Less annoying.”

“Right. Well, if he’s fine, I’m out of here. Tell him he better call me or else,” Jessica said before stomping out.

“She always like that?” Frank asked.

“Pissed? Hungover? Yeah, both. But she likes him, deep down,” Foggy replied.

“Real deep, then.”

“Yeah, real deep.” Foggy waited until he was sure Jessica was far enough away. “We should call his mom.”

“Yeah.”

“Frank.”

“What? He’s fine. Medic checked him out. Just sleeping.”

 _And you’re guarding him like you’d kill anyone who gets too close,_ Foggy thought. _He’s not your boy, Frank. He’s not even a boy any more._ “I can call Karen, ask her to bring her car around. We should take him home.”

“You do that, Nelson. I’m out.”

“Hey, wait – ” but Frank was already gone, the dog at his heels.

Foggy sighed. God save him from emotionally repressed vigilantes who thought punching teeth in was a valid form of self-expression, right?

 

Waking up in an unfamiliar place (a vehicle? a van? No, the smells… ambulance?), wearing unfamiliar clothes (rough, thin), and what was – oh. An emergency blanket, thrown over him by… “Foggy?”

“Yes, buddy, that’s me.”

At least one thing was familiar and comforting here. “What happened?”

“Oh, man. Where to start?”

That didn’t bode well, but something was different. “You don’t sound angry, Fogs.” Matt would have expect Foggy to be angry if he woke up in an ambulance. Matt sat up and felt the clothes he was wearing. Yeah, scrubs. “Was there, uh, an accident? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, no, calm down, everything’s fine. Well, as fine as usual.” Foggy’s hand squeezed his shoulder, and then he hopped next to him on the stretcher. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Um…” Good question, because Matt didn’t – ah, yes. “I was on the roof the office we’re going to move in, wanted to get a feel of the place. There was a sound… a whine, something powering up? I don’t know. How long have I been out? It doesn’t feel like we’re still in the evening.”

Foggy’s heartbeat did a weird little jump. “Yeah, about that.”

Oh, fuck no. “How much time? Foggy, how much time?”

“Three, um.”

“Days? It is days?” Foggy’s silence was answer enough. “ _Weeks?_ ”

“Well, uh, you can look at it that way: at least it was not even an entire month.”

“A _month?_ ”

“Less than a month!”

That was… bad. Matt rubbed his hands on his face and tried to make sense of everything. It didn’t work. His beard apparently hadn’t grown in one month, his clothes had disappeared, he’d lost his glasses. And his cane, but that wasn’t new. “I liked that tie,” he finally said.

“Oh, uh. Jessica found your clothes. Uh, and your phone, too. Screen’s cracked, but otherwise it’s good to go. Charged it and left it on your bedside table.” Foggy bumped his shoulder. “I got your clothes to a dry-cleaner, I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Fogs.” But was it a good or a bad thing? Did that mean he’d been wandering Hell’s Kitchen in his birthday suit for a month? “You called Jessica?”

“Matt, you disappeared. And there wasn’t – you know, no building collapsing, no mention of Daredevil, no nothing. You weren’t with your, uh, nun friend; none of your vigilante buddies had heard anything… We thought you’d been kidnapped, or worse.”

“I don’t remember what happened.”

But the story Foggy told him was worse than a kidnapping. It was something implausible, something that couldn't be fought with either fists or the law; and the idea that they’d all seen him that way… he’d rather it had been an actual gun. That would mean a wound, but he was used to those.

And on top of it, Karen had apparently thought he’d had a secret love child with Elektra, that he’d been hiding the kid from everyone and that he’d finally left with _Maggie_ , with his own mother who’d… He didn’t want to think _abandoned_. He didn’t.

“Karen really thinks I could do that?”

“I think she was pissed that you’d disappeared again, and anger is easier than grief.”

Oh. “I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” Then Foggy snickered and added, “This time.”

Matt smiled, but it didn’t erase his feelings of unease. What if it happened again, now? What about people who’d seen him, what about… everything. Everything that was wrong with it.

“You know, Matty…” Foggy’s voice had softened, and Matt braced for what was to come. He didn’t want to think of himself as a child, he didn’t want to go back to these years, he just – he wanted to forget it. But Foggy didn’t. “I was afraid you’d stay that way. That you’d stay a kid, start your life again from there. I was afraid I’d lost my friend, you know? But then I thought maybe you could have a better go at it. Be happier.”

“I’m happy, Fogs.”

“Sure.” And that _sure_ meant Foggy didn’t believe him, but Matt let it go. He was. He _was_ happy. They were helping people with their firm, he’d found his mother, they’d put Fisk behind bars again. That was good, right? He was happy. “Matt, you would have had so many people looking out for you.”

“For a blind kid. Makes everyone feel better about themselves. Ow! Why did you hit me?”

“Because you’re an idiot. It wasn’t pity and it wasn’t, I don’t know, thinking you were our adult friend. It’s just wanting to give you more than you’d had the first time around, Matt. Can’t you understand that?”

Matt shrugged. “Sure.” It was a lie too.

“Sister Maggie, Frank… I think you should talk to them.”

“What for?” That Frank had looked for him was easy to understand: Karen had asked him, but for Frank to come and visit so often? His mother worked at St Agnes and took care of all those children, there was nothing out of the ordinary there and nothing to talk about, but Frank… He’d probably wanted to learn something to use against Daredevil, find more weaknesses. What else could it be?

“Don’t be dense, Matt. You’re smart, but you can be such an idiot about these things.” Foggy slid down the stretcher and took his phone out. “Look, do you want to come to my place for tonight? Or a few nights? Find your feet again, not mope on your own?”

Matt shook his head. “I don’t mope.”

Foggy huffed, but let that go. “Or St Agnes, maybe?”

“No.”

“All right. Brett should be able to get you home in one of the squad cars, then. You can change out of these.” Foggy pinched his shirt. “Or I can call Karen to come with her car.”

“I’m good.”

“Planning to walk home in scrubs and barefoot, then?”

“No, I…” Matt sighed. “I’ll ask Brett.” He didn’t want to talk to Karen, he didn’t want to talk to anyone. Brett seemed like the safest option.

“Do you want me to call St Agnes?” Matt shook his head. He’d do it himself, he would: just… later. For now, all he wanted was home, and Foggy got it. Of course he went for a hug first, in true Foggy fashion. “Hey, I missed you, buddy,” he said. “You were a cute kid but I missed my friend, asshole tendencies and all.”

Matt wiped his cheeks and pushed Foggy away. “I’ll see you tomorrow at work, all right?”

Foggy snorted before going out and hollering for Brett, and Matt breathed out. Home. He’d be home soon, and he’d meditate and regroup and he’d be fine. Right? He’d be fine.

After a while, Brett came in the ambulance and closed the door behind him.

“So I’m told I’m on chauffeur duty.”

“I can…”

“Oh no, you’re not weaseling out of this. I mean, not only did I see a kid version of you suddenly turn into a grown-ass lawyer, I actually had to see said pasty-white ass. I didn’t sign up for this, Matt.”

“Maybe ask for a bonus.”

“Maybe I will.” Brett moved right next to Matt, then stopped. “Do you actually need help? To move around?”

“Help?”

“Kid you faked being sighted like a champ. And,” Brett’s voice lowered, “I’m starting to get ideas, too. Strange ones. Impossible ones.”

“I’m really blind.”

“Oh, I know. Castle shone a flashlight straight in your eyes and you didn’t react. Kid you, I mean.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Yeah, well.” Brett leaned against the stretcher and it rattled. “So? Do you, or do you not need help? Like using your cane, or being led?”

Matt sighed. “I can do without, it’s just… it takes focus. It’s more tiring. I can still miss things.”

“Uh huh. That's what I thought.”

“Spit it out, Brett.”

“You know how I met Castle when we found you? He was looking for Daredevil.”

“He’s been away, Karen said.”

“ _Away_ , yes. Then suddenly we find you, and Frank stops looking for that vigilante right away. Strange, right?”

“Brett…”

“And then there’s that blind kid who hides on his own in an old gym, a boxing gym.”

“My dad trained there.”

“Yeah, I know. We all know. He was a boxer, your dad. So’s Daredevil.”

“He’s not.”

“Matt. I’m not stupid.” Brett bumped his shoulder. “Come on, I’m leading you to the car. Wouldn't do to have people realize who you are, right?”

“Matt Murdock?” He took Brett’s elbow.

“Yeah, right. Matt Murdock,” and Brett sounded so, so _weary_ Matt couldn’t help a smile.

 

Home at last. It felt like he’d only left it this morning, and at the same time his senses told him a different story. The emptiness, the slightly stale smell… Matt had been away longer than his brain told him. His own body, too, felt slightly off, like it had been uninhabited for a while. He tried not to dwell on it too much and started with a shower, and he emerged from the bathroom feeling slightly more human. He put on some warm clothes and curled up on his couch, phone in hand; he had a call to make.

It didn’t ring long.

“St Agnes,” a familiar voice said.

“Maggie?”

“Matthew.” He heard her clothes rustling. She was sitting down, he decided. “You took your sweet time calling me.”

“I… you already know?”

“Your friend came to tell me.”

“Foggy?”

“Frank,” she said. “And his dog.”

“Oh.”

“The suture kits and gauze I’d bought for last month are being put to good use, since he’s here.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to get stabbed as usual.”

“I can help with that, Red. If you need your stab quota filled,” a gruff voice said. Seemed like Frank was listening in.

“I’m good, thanks. I just…” He should go and see them, thank them in person. He should tell them how grateful he was they’d cared for him. He should tell his mother he’d forgiven her and not just assume she understood he had; tell Frank he didn’t remember much but that now, wrapped in his thickest clothes, he remembered the weight and smell of his jacket and how it had anchored him when he’d been lost. “You were kind to me,” he whispered. “Both of you.”

“Wasn’t going to let a little punk like you starve in a cold gym.” Frank’s voice was clearer, he was speaking directly into the phone. “And the Sister wasn’t either.”

“Yeah, but…” But the Sister was his mother, and Frank had lost a son at about the same age Matt had been. “Can’t have been easy. You didn’t have to do so much.” Matt swallowed. “So, uh. Thank you. And, Frank…”

But Frank didn’t let him finish. “Mike was a good kid. Faced everything like a champ. Would have made any father proud.” Frank’s voice almost, _almost_ , broke. “You get me?”

“Yeah, I… yeah. Same.”

“I’ll still kick your ass if you ever try to fuck up one of my missions.”

“Wouldn't have it any other way,” Matt said. He didn’t know what his face was doing, trying to smile and cry at the same time.

Then there was a doggy whine, and Maggie was speaking again. “The dog is hungry,” she commented. “Now eat and get some rest, kiddo. You know where to find me.”

She hung up and Matt finally found out he could, in fact, smile and cry at the same time, and it lasted right until he fell into a deep dreamless sleep like he hadn’t had in ages.

There was a soft, familiar scarf draped over the back of the couch when he woke up; it hadn’t been there before. It smelled a little like the detergent they used at St Agnes, a little like dog and a little like gunpowder and blood. Matt had slept right through its reappearance and felt both a little scared and comforted by his lack of vigilance. He wrapped the scarf around his neck and felt for his phone on the coffee table, but found a piece of thick paper instead. He ran his fingers over it; someone had pushed pen into paper hard enough each block letter was easy to read.

_See you around, champ. Don’t catch a cold._

“Promise,” Matt said out loud. Whether he was asking or answering, no one was there to wonder. (It was both.)


End file.
